


Kept

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Not Happy, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Snark, Sugar Daddy, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a divergent S3, Anthony Dimmond has become Frederick Chilton's live-in partner and that goes about as badly as you might imagine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindkit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindkit/gifts).



> Inspired and encouraged by chats with the wonderful **kindkit**

“Well gosh oh my, I didn’t realize that there had been such exciting new developments in renal replacement therapy.”

 

At the sound of the languid, sarcastic voice, and the characteristic tap of a cane on the tiled floor behind him, Anthony rolled his eyes, but carried on filing in the computerized form. 

 

“Pardon me?” He didn’t turn around. The man behind him came closer. “Fred? Could you not? You’re in my light.”

 

There was an affected sigh. “Such wonderful medicines they do have nowadays, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Would I say that? What am I meant to be saying?”

 

“Well, Anthony,” Frederick Chilton came round to stand in front of him and leant against the kitchen counter, tapped his ridiculous silver-topped cane against his thigh with that over-studied casualness that could make Anthony want to break things. “Let’s just say I’m assuming you’re about to be telling me about the wonderful way you’ve found to overcome my specific dietary needs post-nephrectomy. Because unless that’s the case, you’re in the process of ordering in a dinner party that I can’t eat.”

 

“You’ve been in the room two seconds and you know that, do you? Or have you been spying?” Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “Have you put monitoring software on my computer again? It had better be the expensive kind, Fred, because that last lot fucked up my whole hard drive.”

 

Frederick coughed and adjusted his collar. “That was a database cleaning program, which I paid for, and if your computer ate another of your, ahem, poetic epics, firstly that was probably because of something you downloaded…”

 

“You know what I download. I would tell you what I download, if you asked. I had the wildest idea that not telling you about my subscription to _Leather Masters XXX_ was polite, but then according to certain people I have a personality disorder.” 

 

“And secondly, Tony,” Chilton spat out the name - abbreviations between them were always for derisory purposes - “you might want to consider backing up your files. I did buy you that external hard drive, which you claimed you needed, and I’ve never seen it used.”

 

Anthony stretched out his arms, and cracked his neck. He was wearing a rather tightly fitted t-shirt - he liked to keep the heating up in Frederick's house, enough to be able to go around in one layer. It rose up over his chest, and he felt the slightly cooler air on his flat stomach. 

 

Being, at the age of 40, a kept boy for an eminent, wealthy psychiatrist who was eminent and wealthy because of a series of lurid true crime books barely worthy of the word ‘writing’, was only palatable on two counts. 

 

(Like Frederick, he now made lists when he wanted to prove himself right; annoying but arguably effective)

 

He was not truly ‘kept’ - his poems continued to sell impressively amongst the circles of the true appreciators of real literature. Not large circles, perhaps, but the only ones that mattered. 

 

And secondly, Frederick was a deeply sad and awful person, and would provide ideal material around which to build his next epic poem on the subject of the ignoble nature of humanity, the pathetic needlessness of survival and the folly of celebrity (‘celebrity’ in the sense of high sales to idiots and notoriety in the gutter press rather than any acknowledgement of actual talent). 

 

On the other hand, he had to live with Frederick, and share his bed, and turn up with him to ghastly parties where people made medical jokes and compared their home helps in racist ways and argued about types of golf club. 

 

And, indeed, had to help plan and host ghastly parties in their turn. Next week was Frederick’s post-launch blow-out for his new book: _Why Lovers Kill_. In the process of helping order decorations to go with the dust jacket ‘art’, Anthony had come up with several answers to that title all his own. 

 

“I’m telling the caterers about the meat option we’d prefer,” he explained now, wearily, (the hard drive was a topic of conversation best avoided - he’d demanded it primarily because they’d spent two hours shopping for a new phone for Frederick, which meant the mall, which meant the seething mouth of Hades and having to interact with people both fat and smelly, and often children - he didn’t actually know how to transfer files to it). “There will, of course, be vegetarian and vegan options that cover Halal, Kosher, and your laundry-list of nourishment issues.”

 

“Well,” Frederick sighed heavily again, "there’s a certain poetry, I dare say, in having a,” he leant in to read off the screen, "'centerpiece roast' that the author of the book, the celebrant of the party, cannot actually enjoy. My public do know these things, Anthony, they pay attention, I’m not just a name to them. I mean not that I know anything about poetry, of course, sadly like so many people nowadays.”

 

It was too soon to do a stretch again. Anthony considered his options. He wanted to get the catering request finished, but not under Frederick’s eye - it never, ever helped to have your partner discuss how much better the home cooking of their most famous psychopath serial-killer was than what you could provide. 

 

The idea of cooking was quite a pleasing one, in some ways - he’d often meant to try it. 

 

But not under Frederick’s inevitable sharp judgement. 

 

Sometimes he planned for ‘after Frederick’, in a vague sense. The things he’d buy, the places he’d go - start travelling again. There was a condition, in these plans, that somehow he had all Frederick’s money despite a lack of Frederick. 

 

Could he go so far as to suggest marriage? And how? Would that be remotely believable? He could precede it with finally letting Frederick bottom, which was by all accounts his preference, but Anthony’s too, and he’d never felt all that inclined to be generous. 

 

“We will have cuts from the roast generally in evidence, and the actual _centerpiece_ involving fruit sculpture.” Anthony ran his hands over his face. “Ugh. I hate myself even saying the words.”

 

Frederick made a satisfied noise - no doubt pleased with the statement and the emotion - and turned to leave again. 

 

“Did you take your lunchtime tablet yet?” Anthony pointed at the opposite counter whilst typing into the form again. “Remember, you need them.”

 

“Oh. Yes.” Back Frederick came, shuffle and tap. He went to the sink and drew some water into a glass. 

 

“Shall I buy the next season of _Teen Wolf_ after I’ve done this?”

 

“We must be nearly done with three, so, yes. Why not?”

 

Anthony turned round, and Frederick held up his hand.

 

“No, don’t tell me, It’s beneath you.”

 

Anthony shrugged. “No. I like seeing the pretty one suffer.”

 

“If only I was pretty,” Frederick said dryly. He was grasping the counter again, and although he hid it well, Anthony could see the spasm of pain crossing his face. 

 

“You’ve been overdoing it again, haven’t you?” Anthony got off his chair, and went to Frederick’s side. “Come on.”

 

Slowly, his arm round Frederick’s waist, they made it across the wide kitchen-diner to the nearest sofa. 

 

“You’re going to lie there and rest,” Anthony told him. “Or I’ll get out your latest book and read it aloud to you, and you know how bad it is."

 

Frederick gave short, hard laugh. His real smile was different to his smirk, and rare as the white tiger the sofa’s hideous faux-fur throw imitated. Frederick had bought that for Anthony for his last birthday (as well as a car), apparently just to watch him wince, but it emerged to be very warm, and somehow they’d kept it. 

 

“Order yourself some new shirts too, if you want.” Frederick leant back against the sofa arm. “I dare say you think you need them.”

 

Anthony’s own smile ebbed away, slightly. He wasn’t sure why. 

 

He went back to the laptop, and opened an Amazon tab. 

 


End file.
